The Stroke
by APerfectGrace
Summary: Castiel finds a temporary summer job while he figures his future out. But with people like the permanently pissed-off Crowley, sarcastic Ruby, gum-popping Jo, prankster Sam and his annoying, hot-as-HELL brother Dean, how temporary can a summer job be? AU.
1. Doors & Decoupage

_I discovered Supernatural. I became obsessed. Very obsessed. Completely obsessed. So obsessed that I think about it 24/7. This came into my head. I'm not even remotely sorry._

_AU. Alternate universe. Characters will vary from the show. I can't make it any clearer than that._

_It starts off slow, give it time. It's my babyyyyy. It's the Impala to my Dean. Mmm, Dean…_

_**Pairings:**__ Dean/Cas, Sam/Ruby, Bobby/Ellen._

_**DISCLAIMER:**__ I do not own Supernatural. I do not own any characters, cast members (although I wouldn't mind owning Misha Collins and Jensen Ackles for the rest of my life), storylines, quotes, nada. I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING. THIS IS MERELY A FANFICTION. Awesome, done._

_**WARNINGS:**__ This story will contain swearing, sexual references, violence of sorts, homosexuality and quite possibly (in the future) scenes of a sexual nature (mwahaha pun). If it's a sin, it's in. If you don't care for any of this, then I'm confused as to why you would click onto a Destiel fic anyway but hey, I warned you. Not your thing? Please see yourself out, and have a lovely day._

_Fun fact: The first sentence of this story is a genuine question asked by yours truly._

* * *

"Why is there a rabbit on top of my numbers?"

Castiel was expecting a '_good morning!', _or a '_hello, how are you?',_ or even a_ 'yo, what's up?' _

Undoubtedly the last one was a bit of a stretch, but entirely possible depending on what part of America you were in. However, the words that he _did_ hear were so unbelievably far from what he was expecting that his response was out of his mouth before he even had time to think.

"I beg your pardon?"

Sure, he had heard all of those words a thousand times before in different contexts, and some words he had heard combined together in short phrases that were common in the English language; however, he had never heard them all in _that_ order before, and it threw him completely because _they didn't make any freaking sense whatsoever._

A whirl of blonde hair flashed across his vision and all of a sudden he was face-to-face with a petite, twenty-something girl who was sprawled across the waxed surface of the shop counter, light eyes sparkling and sugar-pink bubble gum rolling around in her mouth. His nose wrinkled at the sickly-sweet smell, heightening his already-strained nerves.

"Hi," she said simply, blinking at him.

"Hello," he answered lamely, eyeing her back warily.

She whistled low. "Damn. That's some deep voice you got there."

He cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. "Thank you, I guess."

She cocked her head to the side, examining him. "Hey, you're kinda… pretty."

He fought the urge to grimace. He _hated _that word. Especially when it was used to describe _him_. "Uh, thank you, again."

"You're welcome. Did you say somethin' before?" she asked, her crossed arms lying flat across the polished oak surface of the till counter.

"Did you?" he countered, confused. "I'm certain that I heard you say that there was a rabbit on top of some numbers."

She broke into a grin, chewing noisily. "Ah, yeah, of course that would sound strange to you."

He stared at her, unblinking.

"Decopatch," she stated, by way of answer.

His eyebrows snapped together, even more perplexed than before.

She rolled her eyes and quickly checked to see that no one was around. No one was. She leant further over the counter, beckoning him forward with a crook of her finger. Against his better judgement, he shuffled closer, skin prickling as the scent of bubble gum grew stronger. He was twenty per cent sure that he was going to find out what she meant and eighty per cent sure that it would just puzzle him even more.

"Decopatch," she repeated. "It's a company devoted to the art of decoupage."

"Decopatch?" he echoed.

"No, decoupage."

"Decoupage is Decopatch?"

A sugary bubble escaped her lips and burst with a sharp snap, startling him. "No, dude. Decopatch is decoupage. Decoupage is just decoupage. Decopatch is part of decoupage but decoupage isn't part of Decopatch because Decopatch_ is_ decoupage, understand?"

_Eighty per cent. Of course._

He did _not_ understand. Not one bit. His head hurt trying to wrap itself around the jargon that just came out of her gum-popping mouth, but the frustration of being unable to grasp anything burst out of his mouth in an angry exclamation. "_What? _I didn't understand a word you just said! What did you just say? "

She giggled. "You're amusing."

"And _you_ are confusing," he shot back, irritated.

"Joanna," she offered her hand, ignoring his previous question. "Jo, for short."

"Castiel," he sighed, giving up and shaking it. It would do him no good to begin an argument with a girl he didn't know. Especially when said girl seemed to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Girls like that were dangerous. Actually, _all_ girls were dangerous, and if he ever found a way of communicating with them in a safe manner, he could charge by the minute and become rich as hell. "Cas, if you like."

"Castiel? What kinda name is that?"

He bit down the remark on his tongue, having had this conversation with a million other people before her and always getting the same answer. "An unusual one."

"No shit. I prefer the shorter version."

"I would prefer it if you used the shorter version."

A twinkle appeared in her eye, and she surveyed him slowly. "You're here for the job, right?"

"Yes."

"You're early."

"I know."

"Sit tight, _Cas_," she said, testing out his nickname on her tongue. "I'll see if the big cheese is ready to grace you with her presence."

Before he could answer (not that he had any answer available to a girl who referred to her boss as _the big cheese_), Jo had sauntered off and disappeared through a door located next to the counter.

He breathed through his teeth, hard.

_Relax, idiot. It's just a job interview._

He felt stupid even as he thought it. Of course he was tense. He was at a freaking job interview.

Although, as far as interviews go, so far this one didn't fit any mould of previous experiences. In the space of five minutes, he had been befuddled, complimented, confused again, insulted and ordered to stay still.

Even he was unable to determine whether that was a good or bad sign.

_Guess that's what happens when you up and leave everything you know to come to the middle of nowhere._

To be fair, it wasn't like he had anything else to do.

He'd just spent four years studying a degree that he didn't even enjoy, only to receive an idiotic piece of paper and a bunch of letters after his name, not to mention a crippling debt and a large amount of doubt about what he wanted from life.

Yep, he admitted it.

Castiel had no idea what he wanted. He had no partner, no job prospects, no opportunities, very little money saved away and absolutely zero motivation to do… well, anything.

He knew that he desired all of those things at some point in time; he just didn't know how to go about getting them. Lack of inspiration would do that to you.

So he packed a bag and hopped over from Greenfield, Massachusetts to Lawrence, Kansas, to live with his older brother.

Gabriel had been living here for near enough five years now. He'd graduated high school, travelled the world, had been with countless women and had held the most weirdly wonderful jobs, only to finally settle down in Lawrence and get comfy when he'd rid himself of all the extra energy coursing through his veins that had transcended into travelling and partying and sex.

Cas envied him. He'd kill for enough energy to buy a different flavour of milk, let alone make a serious life choice.

When venting to him about this over one of their catch-up telephone tête-à-têtes, Gabriel had responded by offering to house his little brother for a while, while he figured out what he wanted.

He had never said 'yes' to anything so quickly in his entire life.

Hey, he may not have had any drive to do anything, but even _he_ was sick of feeling stuck all the time. He wanted his life to mean something, and most of all, he wanted to find a purpose, a reason to be around and live and not feel like a hamster perpetually trapped in a rotating wheel. He craved that spark of passion, that pull people felt when they discovered that thing that they loved, the thing that they longed for, the thing that they wanted to do for the rest of their lives.

He'd resolved to take whatever he could, to take chances and to go where the wind took him. He'd be damned if he let another moment of his life wave past him while he grew old and decrepit.

Which is precisely how he had ended up in The Stroke: the art store he was currently standing in, waiting for an interview for the position of a sales assistant.

Desperate times, and all that. Besides, you had to crawl before you could walk, right?

* * *

Gabriel had noticed the advert in the local newspaper over breakfast the morning previously.

He'd been helping his brother look for jobs to get his mojo going. By 'help', that meant read random sections of the paper that held no interest for Castiel whatsoever, all the while stuffing butter-drenched toast in his mouth and throwing lovingly teasing remarks at his baby brother.

"Lion tamer, nope, dog walker, nope, cosmetics tester, nope, sales assistant in an art store–"

"Wait," Cas said, setting his coffee down.

He reached over and snatched the newspaper from him, his eyes swiftly scanning the job section.

"You're right," Gabriel nodded enthusiastically as he skimmed the ad. "A cosmetics tester is _exactly _what you should apply for. I don't know why I didn't think of it before, really. It makes a lot of sense, given how pretty you are. I mean, you're so feminine it's actually a wonder why people view you as a man."

Castiel looked at him humourlessly over the top of the paper.

"Cheer up, bro," Gabriel grinned, stuffing a triangle of toast into his mouth and rising up from the table. "You'll find something. Nothing wrong with applying to everything. You never know what will happen."

Cas grimaced as Gabriel clapped him solidly on the back, whistling as he headed to the coffee maker. His eyes reverted back to the sales assistant advert, the cogs in his head already forming.

_He's right. There's nothing wrong with applying. Plus, it's something to do while I figure out what I want, and earn a little money in the process._

"Word of warning: if you apply for the lion tamer job, you _will_ lose half your wardrobe. Be prepared to spend most of your pay check on new clothes. Those fuckers are vicious."

Castiel looked towards the ceiling in a silent prayer. "They're_ lions_, Gabriel. Of course they're vicious."

"I almost lost a testicle, once."

He closed his eyes, quietly counting to five. "Remind me again how exactly you managed to successfully graduate and move out?"

"I slept with my tutor and hustled people playing pool."

He smirked in spite of himself.

* * *

The door unexpectedly pushed open and Jo reappeared, a shiny, rosy bubble positioned where her mouth was supposed to be.

She headed back behind the counter, sliding her hands noiselessly across the cool wood, stopping right in front of Cas. She inhaled hard, the sudden suction causing the bubble of gum to pop with a loud crack.

"Her Majesty shall be with you momentarily," she said airily, performing a mock bow.

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"So, remember what I said about Decopatch?"

"No," he said pointedly, his gaze speaking volumes.

She chuckled. "What about decoupage?"

He groaned and leant against the counter, his slender hand covering his eyes.

"Cheer up, Pretty Boy." She flicked a lock of his dark hair. "Decoupage is the art of decorating a particular object by gluing coloured or patterned paper to it."

He glared at her. "I am _not _a pretty boy."

She carried on like he hadn't spoken. "Decopatch is a company that supplies the materials that enable you to do your own decoupage. The glue, brushes, coloured paper, objects, the whole shebang. Get it, now?"

"Decoupage is the art, Decopatch is the supplier," he summarised, smiling in spite of himself now that it finally clicked into place.

"Wahey, brain cells!" She clapped her hands happily.

"This still doesn't explain the first thing I heard you say when I walked in," he pressed, overlooking her sarcastic tone.

"Decopatch supplies different objects for decoration: letters, numbers, cardboard animals of various sizes, picture frames, and so on. We pride ourselves on presentation here; the shop has gotta look good at all times. Decopatch is my area, so anyone who fucks it up gets my foot up their ass. However,_ someone_ here obviously likes S&M because there are rabbits in the numbers sections, picture frames where the giraffes should be, and _don't even get me started_ on the order of patterned paper. I mean, musical notes next to camouflage patterns… really?"

He just stood there, gaping at her.

It was the rabbits and numbers all over again. Did she even hear herself? He briefly wondered if people thought she was crazy. He'd known her less than thirty seconds and he thought that she was so far off the reservation that it was on the other side of the country.

"Scared ya, didn't I?" she beamed, relishing the expression on his face.

"A little," he said faintly, wondering if he should just leave now and never return for the sake of his sanity and –

The door swung open again and a second woman materialised, shorter and rounder than Jo, with dark skin, shining eyes and a mouth that looked like it was itching to let out a wise-cracked comment. He bolted upright, eyes wide. Jo stifled a giggle behind her hands.

"You Castiel?" the woman asked in a demanding tone, staring him up and down.

"Y-Yes," he stuttered, fear instantly washing over him in waves.

She was staring at him as if she was trying to reach into his soul. It made him extremely uneasy. She looked like the kind of woman who would hit you with a spoon for no reason.

He was beginning to regret coming here. A lot.

"Follow me, boy." With that, she spun on her heels and disappeared the way she had come, leaving behind a snickering Jo and an extremely anxious Cas.

"See you on the other side," Jo laughed, watching him as he padded after the loud lady who put the fear of God into him. "Don't do anything to piss her off, or you might not make it back!"

The only answer was the click of the door opening and closing as Castiel passed through the doorway and vanished from sight.


	2. Meeting The Family

The woman led him through the floor door; they walked through a long corridor that tapered into an alcove which ran along the side of the building. It was plain, yet neat and clean. The smooth cream walls gave the place a hygienic feel, whilst the black flooring drowned out all noise. It was sanitary, and quiet: two characteristics that immediately eased the tension that he was feeling.

"Ever been to this shop before?" she queried, not even bothering to look back at him.

"Yes," he answered politely, betraying no outward signals that he was nervous, even though internally he was a gibbering wreck. "I came here a couple of days ago to have a look around."

It wasn't a lie. He had decided that it would be a good idea to familiarise himself with the building before he came for the interview. That way, he could avoid the maximum stress levels he was prone to facing if he arrived unprepared.

He dropped in a few days previously, thankfully arriving at one of the busier times of the day, which meant that he could scope the place out without fear of being interrupted.

Castiel had never spent time in art stores; he had no idea what to expect. Based on second-hand knowledge that he had subconsciously gleaned over time, he assumed that art shops were all moulded into what people described as 'organised chaos'. He was certain that they involved some form of visible colour scheme, tubes of paint lining the walls like brickwork and stacks of paper stuffed into every available space. From what he had heard (which wasn't a lot), he was under the impression that art stores were stuffy little shops with too much wooden furniture, strange smells and the guarantee of losing an eye thanks to some wayward brush sticking out of somewhere it shouldn't be.

He found that he was pleasantly incorrect.

The Stroke was spacious, structured and surprisingly easy to manoeuvre about in.

Windows that reached from ceiling to floor covered the entire eastern side, basking the shop in a wonderful glow of sunlight and eliminating any shadows present. Polished shelves and racks were organised neatly in grids across the plane of the floor, holding all manner of enticing products: cylinders full of pencils in every available gradient, stacks of sketchbooks in landscape and portrait and spiral and hardback and softback, books on every art medium known to man, brightly coloured tins sporting pencils neatly organised in the rainbow spectrum, canvas ranging from the size of one's palm to a queen-sized bed, rolls of paper, pastels, foamboard, rulers, tapes in all colours and sizes, markers, pens, you name it. On the northern walls hung rows and rows of brightly coloured tubes of paint: oil, acrylic, watercolour, gouache – all neatly dangling in lines. Alongside these rows were large pots full of sable, hog and synthetic brushes, all standing to attention like soldiers. The western side was covered by a colossal metal structure that held racks of paper in every available thickness and colour and dimension. The southern side was the children's area: fluffy pipe cleaners, sparkling glitter, vibrant poster paint, build your own and paint your own toys, plasticine that you just wanted to squish, shiny sequins, thick crayons, and that godforsaken Decopatch that Jo befuddled him with. An entire section was dedicated to the stuff: letters of the alphabet in small and large sizes, picture frames, masks, animals ranging from flamingos to dogs and an entire rack full of patterned and rainbow printed paper, all ready and waiting to be decorated.

In all honesty, when he first walked in, he didn't really know where to look. Considering how many products were being housed here, this shop was extremely neat and tidy. It was rather interesting to see all this world of colour and size and shape skilfully slotted away into this little building.

It did give him a small headache though; there was a_ lot_ of colour.

"Initiative," the woman stated. "This is good."

"Thank you," he said, before they both lapsed back into silence; comfortable for her, increasingly uncomfortable for him.

Silence in an interview was always a bad thing. Technically, they hadn't even started yet, but first impressions were always a significant factor and gave valid insight on how the rest of the time would pass. He could feel the earlier feelings of calm dissipate, and his shoulders began to knot up again.

In an effort to relax himself, he surveyed the area around him. Various rooms ran the length of the corridor; some were open, some were closed. Roughly halfway down the passageway, a bright light shone through one of the doors, shining into the hallway like a beacon.

A beacon was an apt name; the woman was beelining straight for that door. Wordlessly, he followed her.

"I don't know your name," he blurted out, half because he couldn't think of anything to say and he wanted to break the unnerving silence, but also half because, if she suddenly flipped out and ganked him, he wanted to be able to point the police in the right direction.

She stopped still, turning around to stare at him. He suddenly felt like he'd asked her to decapitate someone with the way she was gaping at him. Those eyes were just boring on him and it made him inwardly squirm. This woman was rapidly becoming the only person he could think of who made him feel so unbelievably uncomfortable. Gabriel came a very close second, though.

"Are you sure, boy?"

"Did you just call me 'boy'?" he inquired, so genuinely taken aback that he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"Yes," she answered, offering no further explanation.

"I… Why?"

"It's what I do. You got a problem?"

Castiel was very, _very_ sure that interviews were not supposed to go like this. He was becoming more anxious and more confused by the minute, and he was honestly deciding whether or not he should just turn tail and get the hell out of there.

"Yes, I have a problem!" he reacted hotly, panic taking over his words. "I've been here all of five minutes, and in that time your lunatic employee has insulted me and confused me, _you _have scared the hell out of me with your short sentences and your sharp tones and your terrifying staring thing, _and_ I don't know your name, which I'm positive that I will need to know because I'm pretty certain that in approximately five minutes, you are going to _murder me._"

She unexpectedly broke into a smile, which progressed into a grin, which ended in a long, loud fit of laughter. He stood there in shock and watched this large, African woman practically shake the walls with her mirth while he tried to work out what exactly he had said that made her laugh so damn hard.

After a few moments of giggling to herself, she quietened down and extended her hand out to him, just like Jo had earlier. He eyed it suspiciously, as if she was hiding a nest of spiders up her sleeve, ready to bite him. His wariness only made her laugh again, tears at the corners of her eyes.

He didn't know which made him more apprehensive: her staring, or her laughing.

"Missouri," she said warmly, her eyes crinkling.

He slowly gripped her hand and shook it, taken aback by the complete 180-degree turn in voice and tone and actions and _everything_. Was this even the same woman from two minutes ago?

"Castiel," he replied hoarsely.

"I know, boy," she laughed. "I was the one who called you, remember?"

"Sorry," he answered, dazed. His head was practically spinning from the sudden change – he couldn't keep up with this woman. "I forgot."

"You got a sore throat?"

He shook his head again. "This is my natural voice."

"Damn," she commented loudly. "You know, I'm thinking that you could make a_ lot_ of money with a voice like that. People would pay crazy amounts of cash to hear a voice like that on a sex-line."

He had no idea what the expression on his face must have been like because she abruptly broke out into deafening peals of laughter. _Again._

"Did… Did you just tell me that I should work _on a sex-line?_"

"Your face!" she chortled, wiping the corner of her eyes. "Not that I condone that sort of thing, but you have the natural ingredients to make a lot of money in that industry. Just FYI."

He was having such a hard time adjusting to the whole situation that he was pretty sure he was going to have an aneurysm.

"Do all interviews commence with you insulting your interviewees?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes at her. He was really forgetting the fact that he was plying for a job here, and in all seriousness he couldn't even remember _why_ the hell he was applying for a job here.

"I just complimented you."

He blinked at her, stumped at how she could _possibly _believe that. "You just told me that I basically should be charging by the minute for strangers to listen to my voice."

"It is unique," she added thoughtfully, more to herself than him.

"I'm not going to degrade myself by having people in various states of arousal listen to me talk about touching myself!"

"Who's touching themselves?" a new voice butted in, shattering the oh-so-pleasant mood.

They turned around to see a man emerging out of the door that they were supposed to have entered an age and a half ago.

Cas took one look at him and had to physically restrain himself from dropping his jaw open.

The guy was taller, taller than most people, and that was saying something because Castiel was over six foot tall. Green eyes framed by long, thick lashes flashed mischievously in his direction, and he was alarmed to feel a warm sensation pooling in the base of his abdomen. A sprinkling of freckles speckled an elegant, pointed nose that led down to full, sensuous lips; lips that were currently curved upwards into a smirk that was _definitely_ being directed at him. The guy's jawline and cheekbones were defined and sharp, and his short, light hair was styled into tufts that peaked together at the centre of his forehead.

He had a lean, muscular figure: broad shoulders, taut stomach and strong, well-built arms that gave Cas ideas, the kind of ideas that Gabriel got about women in short skirts and see-through blouses. He drank in the scuffed boots, the ripped jeans, the _tight _shirt and the leather jewellery that the man was wearing, memorising every single detail of him.

Cas was acutely aware that he was doing something akin to gawking. He silently thanked God that he had enough semblance of control left not to let his mouth hang open. Not much, though. This guy was –

"No one is touching themselves, Dean," Missouri responded, rolling her eyes.

_Dean…_

"Shame," the guy called Dean pouted, looking _right at him_.

His intense gaze on his face made Cas flush from head to toe. "She told me I should work at a sex-line!" he exclaimed, his words tumbling over one another in a feverish rush.

No sooner had the words left his mouth, then he swiftly developed the urge to clap a hand over his mouth, combined with an enormous desire to bury himself deep underground.

What the_ hell_ was that? Why, why, _why_ did he have to say that?

Dean raised an eyebrow, and he_ swore_ his grin grew three times in size. "I'm not surprised."

_He's not – wait, what?_

"You're not surprised because you think I should work at a sex-line, or because she always says stuff like that?"

"Who's she, the cat's mother?" Missouri demanded rudely, but he barely caught what she said.

Dean had a rather lovely smile, and Cas was sure that if he stared at it long enough he would –

"Well, why don't you figure that one out on your own, genius?" Dean countered, talking over Missouri, who rolled her eyes.

"I – I don't…"

"So, what are you here for? Apart from receiving career advice from our lady boss here?" he carried on, still looking at him with those ridiculous green eyes and scrambling his train of thought.

Between Missouri's staring and Dean's staring, Cas was pretty sure that he wasn't going to get out of here in one piece today. He might actually explode from this emotional rollercoaster of a day.

"The job position that you advertised about," he responded, commending himself for managing a whole sentence that sounded halfway decent and not like a teenage boy doped on hormones.

Dean bit his lip, grinning_._

_Nope, not getting out of here alive._

"Dean," he introduced himself, offering his hand. Cas took it slowly, shaking it and trying not to think too much about Dean's warm, firm grip on his skin, or the jolts of electricity zipping through his arm.

"Castiel," he returned the favour.

"Castiel," Dean repeated, feeling his name roll off his tongue. "Matches your unique vocal chords, dude."

"Thank you."

"Totally could work in a sex-line," he added salaciously, winking at him.

"_Goddamn it _–"

"Shut up and go and do the banking, boy," Missouri ordered in a resounding tone, cutting over him before he could begin his tirade.

Dean mock-saluted her. "Yes, ma'am." He vanished momentarily, reappearing seconds later with a small bag slung over his shoulder and a slice of what looked like pie hanging out of his mouth. Cas was suddenly ravenous, and swallowed instinctively.

"Sam, I'm out!" Dean shouted towards the direction of the door he'd just left.

"Paperclips!" yelled back another male voice that belonged to someone Cas couldn't see.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean drawled as he moved towards them, heading for the door that they had just come through. "Later, boss." He nodded at Missouri. She rolled her eyes and shooed him off.

He winked at him as he passed by, his smile growing exponentially as they crossed paths. A faint waft of cherry filled the air as he closed the distance between the pair of them. "See ya, _Cas-ti-el_. Or, you know, not. Good luck with the interview. No touching yourself, now. Family friendly business, we've got going here." With that, he waltzed through the door to the front of the shop, striking up a conversation with Jo.

A dazed Castiel watched him go, the way Dean had elongated his name replaying over and over in his head. He felt lightheaded and pissed off and aroused, all three emotions warring inside him and making him so tense it was a wonder he didn't crack in half.

"What's the flavour of the day then, Dean?" they heard Jo ask.

"_She's my cherry pieeeeee_," he sang in a husky voice, cluing her in and making her laugh.

He abruptly had a vision of Dean singing that song to him and he felt his face grow hot.

_What the hell is being in this building doing to me?_

The door swung shut, effectively muting their voices, and then he was alone with Missouri again in the airy corridor.

"Someone seems to be taking a shine to Dean." Cas could_ hear_ the smirk in her voice.

"He's eating pie," he observed, uttering the first thing that came to his mind that had even a _hint _of changing the topic.

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression calculating. "He loves pie, that boy. He'd eat it twenty-four seven if he could."

"But…" he frowned, puzzled. "It's nine-thirty in the morning. Who eats pie at nine-thirty in the morning?"

"Don't even bother, child. Sam's been trying to analyse his brother for years and still hasn't a clue how he works."

"Sam?" he repeated, confused.

"Yo," the second voice from earlier piped in, and if Cas thought Dean was tall, that was _nothing_ compared to this guy. This guy made the Empire State building look like a hobbit hole.

"Dean is your brother?" he asked, storing that useful information away for a later time.

"Unfortunately so," he chuckled, showing off a set of perfect, white teeth, "the curse of the Winchesters. Buy one awesome guy, get an annoying brother for free. Sam Winchester."

"Castiel," he answered in kind, shaking his hand firmly.

"Cool name."

"So, paperclips?" Wow, he was _all _intelligence today.

Sam stared him down with a serious expression. "Like gold dust, man," he deadpanned.

"I see." He did not see.

Missouri butted in. "Sam, I need the office. Scoot."

"Your wish is my command." He gave Cas a once over as he left. "Maybe they're right, you know. You're probably in the wrong business altogether."

"You were eavesdropping?" he said, abashed.

"You're not exactly quiet," Sam laughed. "That will probably come in handy for your career as an audio porn star."

"You people are _really_ starting to –"

Sam turned from him to Missouri, smiling. "He can't take a joke, can he?"

"Nope." Her smile matched his perfectly.

"A joke is amusing," Castiel retorted, breathing through his nose angrily. "This is_ not_ amusing."

"You keep that sense of humour for the customers here," Sam told him in mock-seriousness.

"I haven't even got the job yet," he responded, his eyebrows knitting together.

"Yet?" It was Missouri's turn to frown.

"Just a figure of speech," he said contritely, taking a subtle step back just in case she decided to hit him with a blunt object.

"Nice save. If you're usually that quick-witted, the customers will love you. Although, I'm sure that they could love you in _other _ways…"

"Should I just leave?" he snapped tetchily, losing patience. There were only so many times you could hear people tell you that you needed to sell yourself for money before you needed to find new company. "It's becoming rather clear that I'm only here for you to use as an emotional punching bag and not as a prospective employee."

"Calm yourself, short-stuff," Sam said in a light-hearted tone. "She's kidding."

"I'm only short to you because God didn't dip you in the height gene pool; he _dropped_ you in it," he said scathingly, making Missouri cackle behind her hand.

Sam's mouth twitched in kind, trying hard not to chortle. "And that's my cue. Laters, M. See ya around, short-ass. If you pass."

Clapping him on the back and making him wince with the force of it, Sam turned on his heels and headed through the same door that Dean had left through moments earlier. Once he left, a long instant passed where Missouri and Cas simply stared at one another.

"Oh, what the hell, I'm giving you the job," she informed him, loving the way his eyes bulged wide at the revelation.

"W-What?" he stammered, flabbergasted. "You haven't even interviewed me yet!"

"Can you use a till?" she asked.

"Yes, but–"

"Can you talk to customers?"

"Well, of course–"

"Can you sell products? Other than yourself, obviously."

"_Will you stop_–"

"Do you learn new information quickly?"

"Yes, but I–"

"Done. You're hired."

"Why?" he yelled exasperatedly, throwing his hands up in the air, because he was getting so goddamn tired of being unable to keep _up_.

She fixed him with a calculating stare that was half-amused, half-irritated. "I like you. You get pissed off very quickly and it's very entertaining to watch."

He opened his mouth to angrily reply but she held up her hand, stilling him. "I know someone with a brain when I see one. All the other applicants were idiots."

"But, but…" he stumbled, thrown.

"Do you want the job or not?" she fired back.

"Yes, but–"

"Son, you 'but' me one more time, yours is cruisin' for a bruisin'."

He clamped his mouth shut. For approximately five seconds.

"Job interviews aren't supposed to go like this!" he said in a panicked rush.

He liked the normal way that things were done. Rules were good. This throwing caution to the wind stuff gave him acid reflux.

She smiled at him knowingly. "We run things differently here."

_No shit._

He watched as she disappeared into the room Sam had just vacated, coming back with a pen and a small writing pad.

"Here," she intoned, quickly scrawling a list on the paper. "Bring these with you, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he echoed, dumbstruck.

She smiled. "Congratulations, Castiel. You are now the newest employee of The Stroke."

He mirrored her smile faintly, wondering what exactly it was that he had gotten himself into.


	3. Office Talk

_Sorry for the late update!_

_This chapter was really hard to get out; I've spent ages on it and even though I've re-written it a hundred times, it still isn't 100% to what I wanted, but if I spend any longer on it I will go crazy and stab myself with a fork. This is kind of a filler I guess, but don't worry, it should pick up soon. I'm still going slowwwww, haha._

_Also, big thank you to all those who have reviewed and followed/faved, thank you very much!_

* * *

It was approximately midday, and, after the amusing events of that morning, Missouri was currently breaking the news to Sam and Dean about Castiel's successful not-exactly-an-interview interview.

"So, let me get this straight," Dean began, leaning against the office doorframe, "you gave him the job without actually giving him an interview?"

Missouri nodded as she filed away some paperwork into a blue ring binder, snapping it shut and storing it away.

"So, you have no idea what his skills are?" Sam added, his eyes skimming the open spread sheet on the glowing computer screen.

"Nope."

"So," Dean drawled, fingering the leather bracelet around his wrist, "for all you know, he could be a complete idjit who doesn't know how to count change, or talk to people."

"No, that's you, Dean."

"Bite me, Sammy."

Sam smirked in retaliation, tapping away furiously on the keyboard.

"What's your point, boy?" Missouri said, scribbling some notes down in a notepad.

"My point is you've just hired someone who could have no brain cells to rub together."

"I didn't get that impression from him," she speculated.

"Yeah, me neither." Sam put his two cents in.

"He seemed like a sharp kid. He spoke well and came to check the shop out before he came here, so we know he has initiative. He doesn't seem to be a complete idiot."

Dean grabbed a rubber ball band off the top of the safe and started playing with it. "Alright, maybe he's not an idiot, but _maybe _he's a serial killer."

"Oh, yeah, because that makes even more sense," Sam butted in sarcastically, throwing a look at his brother. "I can totally see the headlines now: serial killer seeks out Kansas art store to achieve dream of slaughtering Lawrence citizens."

"You won't be joking when he comes in one day and murders us by pouring white spirit down our throats and stabbing us with hobby knives."

Missouri rolled her eyes. "You watch too much TV."

"True, but _you're_ the one who hired someone without even looking at their credentials," he observed lightly, tossing the ball back and forth between his fingers.

"He told me he knew how to use a till and talk to customers."

"And you believed him?" Sam replied.

"Are we playing the blame game, now?" she countered.

"We are, because you just gave someone a job without checking that they can actually do it," he supplied, cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, Crowley is going to _love_ that," Dean commented, smirking hard.

"Can I tell him?" Sam said excitedly, lifting his head up from the computer screen in front of him. "Please?"

"And deny me my fun?" Missouri said teasingly, turning to face him.

"I'll place the Croatoan order for you," he bartered, staring at her with those puppy dog eyes.

"You have to do that anyway; it's part of your job, genius."

"I'll place it early_ and_ order the patterned duct tape that you wanted for the summer."

She studied him, her eyes narrowed. After a long instant, she said, "I _hate_ it when you do that."

"What?" he asked innocently.

"_That_," she responded, gesturing to the large, pleading eyes that he was directing her way.

"That's because it works," Dean added, chuckling.

"Fine," she conceded, to Sam's glee, "but_ you_ have to tell Ruby that she's training him tomorrow."

"What – oh, _come on!" _The look on the young Winchester's face was _priceless_.

"Fair's fair," she beamed, winking.

Sam pouted, glaring at a laughing Dean. "_Fine_."

"Pleasure doing business with you, boy."

He scowled at her. "It's like dealing with the devil."

"Is it worth it?"

Sam thought about the priceless look that would appear on Crowley's face and smirked in spite of himself. "Totally."

The phone suddenly trilled, interrupting their conversation. She picked it up, answering it. "Hi, you're through to The Stroke, this is Missouri speaking, how can I help you?" After a moment of nodding and listening to the person on the other end of the line, she headed out of the office and onto the shop floor, leaving Sam and Dean alone in the office.

The office was rather large as far as offices went; a massive wooden desk ran along the length of the northern side, cornering around and stopping halfway down the eastern side, where it conjoined with a large, metal stack of shelves full of files and folders and boxes. Three computers were equally spread out atop of it, all with worn down keyboards and humming hard drives and soft office chairs and wires crawling from every possible place. The left computer was the one that Sam was currently sat in front of, tapping away at a hundred miles an hour. Above his head were shelves nailed to the wall, sporting a series of brightly coloured folders and piles of paper. On the opposite side, where the desk twisted down to the shelves, was a colossal printer that was currently spewing out a mass of paperwork. Behind Sam, a black, gleaming safe was hidden behind the door, a large amount of bric-a-brac lying on top of it: plastic containers full of neatly piled paperwork, post-it notes, cardboard boxes full of miscellaneous items and what looked like a small toolbox. A large corkboard hung on the right hand wall next to Dean's head, holding calendars and notes and order forms and reminders for everything that needed to be done that day.

Dean set the ball back down on top of the safe and moved away from the doorway. He plonked himself down on the chair, leaning his back against the desk and resting his elbows on it. "Crowley is going to hate him, you know."

"Crowley hates everyone," Sam smiled, his eyes roving the spread sheet.

"Not true," he countered. "He doesn't hate me."

Sam stopped typing to look at him pointedly. "_Especially _you, Dean."

He placed a hand on his heart, acting offended. "That hurt."

"Really?"

The affronted expression on his face melted away to be replaced by a beam that practically split his face in two. "Hell no! I live to annoy the crap outta that dude."

Sam rolled his eyes and resumed what he was doing. "Well, what does he expect? We need the staff."

"True. It's bad enough that you and I are split between other things, but with the summer coming we're gonna need all the help we can get." He stretched, the vertebrae in his back cracking pleasantly. "This… this _Castiel_ dude… from what I saw of him… not bad. I'm sure he's not an actual serial killer. He's too smart-looking for that. Kinda attractive. And funny. Hilariously funny, actually. Not on purpose though, which just makes him even more entertaining. Hell, I could watch him all day. I thought that his head was going to explode when –"

He trailed off when he saw the look that Sam was giving him. "What?"

"You know what," Sam said evenly, ceasing his typing.

"I really don't, dude."

"You just complimented a guy that you don't even know."

"So."

"Without any prompting from me."

He stared him down. "And?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, the only time that you _ever _compliment people is when you want to sleep with them. Or need a favour."

He gasped dramatically. "I would _never_ –"

He raised an eyebrow, making Dean trail off mid-sentence, chuckling. "Yeah, okay, maybe I've done that once or twice –"

"Once or twice?" he repeated incredulously. His eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline.

"Okay, maybe more than once or twice, maybe like three or, uh, five times, you know… maybeninetyninepercentofthetime _the point is_, I just think he seems alright, you know?"

"Sure. In a shuck off your pants kind of way."

"_No_," he enthused.

"Right."

Dean looked at Sam, who stared back, the meaning behind his expression obvious.

"Sammy…"

"I saw the way you looked at him on the CCTV, Dean. Don't even try to deny it."

He sniggered, fidgeting with his ring. "What do you want me to say?"

"Uh, that you have the hots for him?"

"And you've come to that conclusion how?"

Sam swivelled in his chair to fully face him, his left arm resting along the desk. "Since when do you _ever _speak to people that you don't have to speak to? It took you six months before you'd even acknowledge that_ Jo_ was part of the team and that you actually needed to communicate with her to get anything done."

"Jo is awesome. She actually is one of the few people who make me not want to gauge my eyes out with a pencil."

"Yes, she is. Most people are, if you give them the opportunity, but you rarely give people that chance."

Dean rubbed the back of his head, the soft hairs prickling upwards at the contact. "Well –"

"Face it," Sam said, smirking. "You think this guy is hot."

"I think a lot of guys are hot, Sam," he said, trying to keep it nonchalant, but failing.

"Yeah, but this one is different."

"You met him, right?_ He_ is different. In every sense of the word."

"Yeah," Sam replied, with barely suppressed impatience, "but he's _your_ type of different."

"_My_ type?" he repeated, confused.

Sam stood up to pick up a red ring binder off the shelf, sitting back down as he opened it. "Tousled bed hair, crazy eyes, even crazier personality and completely hot-tempered."

"And you got all this from one short 'how do you do'?"

"He introduced himself, got really angry because we were having a harmless joke and then insulted me. Yeah, I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that he's angry and crazy."

"You know, you could describe me that way," Dean pondered thoughtfully, more to himself than to his brother.

"Trust me, I do," Sam muttered under his breath.

"What?"

"What?" he echoed innocently.

Dean glanced at him suspiciously. "Anyway, that ain't the type of guys that I go f–"

"The yoga guy from Illinois, Rufus' nephew, the guy who helped Pam at the coffee shop last year, Bobby's old mechanic –" Sam ticked them off of his fingers as he went along the list.

"Alright, alright–"

"The twins from Santa Fe–"

"Heh," Dean licked his lips, memories of a hot night in a motorway hotel room seeping to the forefront of his mind. "Good times–"

"Mark from my course–"

"Okay, you can stop now."

"That idiot who crashed into the front lawn three summers ago –"

"I'm warning you…"

"The dude from the Styx concert –"

"Sam, I _swear_…"

"The Christmas temp from last year who bought you pie all the time… all of them were lunatics with a short fuse and –"

Dean gazed at him hotly as he carried on, calculating a way to get him to shut up. Revenge came to him in 2.3 seconds, and he suddenly sprung out of his chair, yelling. "_Ruby!_ Sam has to tell you something about the new boy!"

The only thing he could hear afterwards was Sam swearing loudly before the red binder whizzed past his ear. Laughing, he shot up and pegged it out of the room, just in time to see a hole puncher sail over his head.

* * *

It was now early afternoon, and Missouri was currently dealing with a pissed off supervisor after Sam had just broken the news to him about Castiel.

Crowley was a middle-aged British man who had immigrated to America fifteen years ago on an accountancy job, but became redundant a year ago after the firm he worked went into liquidation. Now, he was just a grumpy ass man with a bee in his bonnet. Everything pissed him off, but he was so hilariously over the top when he blew his fuse (plus, an angry man with a British accent made things a thousand times funnier) that certain members of the shop deliberately went out of their way to irritate him at every opportunity. Anything for a bit of comedy.

"Hang on one bloody minute," Crowley growled, leaning against the office doorframe, "you hired someone?"

"Yes," Missouri stated.

"You gave someone the job?"

"Yes," she repeated slowly for his benefit.

"The position has officially been filled?"

Her lips curved upwards and she cocked her head to the side. "You seem to be having a hard time understanding English, Crowley."

"Which is freaking hilarious, considering that you're English!" Dean yelled from further down the stockroom.

Crowley rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Fantastic observation, Dean. Really, you should apply for MIT with that IQ."

"Touchy," Sam laughed from his computer.

He glared over at him. "Stay out of it, Moose."

Sam clucked his tongue and turned back to the screen, resuming his clicking and smiling to himself. '_Definitely worth it,_' he mused to himself.

Crowley faced Missouri once more. "I just don't understand it!"

"Well, generally speaking, when a company advertises for a vacancy, and someone comes along with the exact qualities that they need to carry out said job, they usually get offered the job," she explained, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I _mean,_ why was I not consulted on this?"

"Because you didn't need to be."

Crowley's lip curled in distaste. "I'm the supervisor."

"And last time I checked, I was the manager," she said evenly.

Frustrated, he stalked off, muttering to himself. She watched him go, shaking her head and chuckling. As he disappeared, a short, dark-haired girl with a face like thunder took his place moments later.

"Missouri! Why am I training this idiot tomorrow?"

"Because you know this place inside out and you've done it a million times?" Sam broke in.

"Who asked you, Sam? Oh, that's right, _no one_," the girl retorted, eyes blazing in his direction.

"I wouldn't have put it in those exact words, but basically, yeah, he's right," Missouri supplied.

Sam grinned at the girl, who gave him a few choice words.

"Why, Ruby," he said in mock-shock, "I never knew you even knew words like that. You need to wash your mouth out with soap."

"And_ you _need to jump in front of a truck and put me out of my misery."

"Oh my God, will you two just shut up and sleep together already?" Dean provided his own running commentary from the stockroom. "It's like an episode of freaking One Tree Hill!"

"Butt out, Dean!"

"You watch One Tree Hill?" Missouri asked, confused.

The laughing abruptly ceased. "I-I… oh, shut up!"

"Missouri," she whined, turning back to her manager.

"He's not an idiot, Ruby."

"We think," Sam added helpfully.

"You think?" she echoed dubiously.

"Missouri kinda hired him without checking to see if he could actually do anything."

She stared disbelievingly at her for a moment, before her brain kick-started into gear and she abruptly yelled, "Are you _crazy?_"

"Watch your tone, girl," Missouri warned.

"You want me to train some random guy who for all we know could be a complete _moron_ or some sort of serial killer or –"

"Odd, that's exactly what Dean said," Sam frowned.

A loud 'hah!' boomed from the stockroom. "Told ya!"

Missouri raised a hand up impatiently. "You're training him because you're the best at it and he needs training. End of discussion."

Ruby suddenly cursed, spinning on her heels and storming off, huffing and mumbling.

"Don't cuss at me, girl!" she cautioned loudly.

The cursing ceased but the muttering continued until Ruby had headed back to the shop floor. She shook her head, sighing.

_That girl and Crowley must have been separated at birth._

"And tell Jo to stop snapping her gum! I can see her on the CCTV!"

* * *

At roughly the same time, Castiel was breaking the news to Gabriel in a slightly awestruck fashion whilst preparing dinner.

"That's brilliant news, Cas!" he beamed, slapping him on the back as a way of congratulations.

He winced, pain lancing through his muscles at the sharp contact.

"Baby," he chided, but his eyes were laughing and his voice was gentle.

"I am not a baby, Gabriel," he responded, turning some dials on the cooker as his brother sat down at the table.

"I know, genius," he chuckled. He stretched, his long legs unfurling from under his chair. "So, when do you start?"

"Tomorrow," Cas replied, placing one of the saucepans onto of the humming hob.

"Nice. Meet any of your team?"

"My new manager."

"Oh, yeah? Is he a pain in the ass?"

"She. No. Just crazy."

Gabriel laughed at the nonchalant way he said it. "Anyone else?"

"Jo. Sales assistant. Also crazy."

He smirked. "Cute?" Cas turned to fix him with a pointed stare. He held up his hands defensively. "Hey, just asking!"

"She is an attractive girl, if blonde hair and a petite frame are your thing."

"Mmm, very much my thing," he answered salaciously, watching his brother stir the sauce. Castiel eyed him meaningfully. "Sorry. Carry on. Two crazies. Any dudes?"

"Sam. He's 6'4."

Gabriel whistled low. "Damn."

"He is exceptionally gifted in the height department."

"You aren't exactly hobbit-sized yourself, you know." He looked slowly at his brother's six-foot frame.

"I suppose."

"So, that it?"

"Well, there's…" His voice trailed off and his arm momentarily stopped stirring the simmering sauce as thoughts of Dean filled his mind.

He caught himself and hastily continued in the hopes that he wouldn't notice, but it was too late: Gabriel caught it.

"Who is he?" he asked, sitting up straight, suddenly interested.

"No one," Cas replied, a little too quickly. His voice hitched at the last second, betraying the lie.

Gabriel latched onto it like a hawk on its prey. "Liar!" he said gleefully.

Cas inwardly cursed himself, resolving to school his emotions better, otherwise Gabriel was going to lord things like this over him until the end of time.

"What's his name?" he was asking him.

He sighed. There was no point in lying to him now. "Dean Winchester."

"And?"

"I'm pretty sure that it's his whole name," he added, confused.

Gabriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. He often wondered if Cas was an idiot on purpose, but then decided that he didn't possess that kind of ability.

"No, bro," he smirked. "Tell me _about _Dean."

Cas frowned. "I've met him once, Gabriel."

"And?"

He exhaled noisily. Gabriel and his incessant questions. "6'2, brown, spiky hair, green eyes–"

"Just your type!"

"I do not have a _type_."

"You always go for attractive looking men, baby brother."

Cas frowned, blushing. "Well, he is aesthetically pleasing to the eye, I suppose. And don't call me that."

"There you go," Gabriel shot back, clapping his hands as if that solved the point. "Now, go for it."

"Gabriel, I don't even _know_ him," he replied shortly.

"Not yet," he sang in a child-like manner.

"What makes you think that I even need someone, anyway?"

"Because you live with me and you get violent when you're not getting any."

Clenching his jaw and willing himself not to reach for the kitchen knife, Cas began the process of serving dinner, all the while refraining from stabbing his brother in the eye.

Gabriel could be so_ insufferable_, sometimes.


End file.
